


all eyes on us (but when i get you alone it’s so simple)

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Band Fic, F/M, Fluff, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot, Smut, come on... its a look, dont blame me for simping clarkes doing it too, drummer!bellamy, its basically porn with some but very little plot, like time to make a dentist appointment kind of fluff, look at these hets go!, no missionary!, sorry murphy has a speaking role xx, theres also smut dont worry, this is just disgusting fluff, we're forgetting the bandana, yes this might all just be based on the size of his biceps and him in a muscle tee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:08:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27022519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: Josie drags Clarke to a concert, although when it comes to the band's drummer she comes willingly.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 51
Kudos: 277





	all eyes on us (but when i get you alone it’s so simple)

**Author's Note:**

> i asked nai to write this for me but shes still a whore in medical school so then i just took matters into my own less capable nurse hands and here we are. dont expect too much of it but at least we can all guarantee that no matter what its better than whatever s7 of the p00 show was. in the name of the shepherd, amen
> 
> songs used in the fic are by 5sos, bring me the horizon and the aces because no i still am not poetic enough to pull off writing lyrics in a non-embarrassing way<3 . credit to meha for half of the summary

On the Friday before midterms, Josie drags Clarke to a random bar a town over to see a semi-popular pop-rock band originating from their college town. Usually she’d rather be cramming for her biology exam, but Josie has a way with words and Clarke couldn’t pretend she hadn’t wanted to go see the band anyway. 

Her roommate wanted to see _Grounders_ at first, an all-female metal-punk band playing a few towns over, but Clarke draws the line at mosh pits. Besides, Josie would complain about her making googly eyes at the members of the band all night. Most of the time, her friend’s unfortunately aggressively heterosexual, and the bassist Lexa is cute, but if Clarke wanted her sexuality invalidated for an entire night she’d just turn on the CW. 

So _The Disciples_ were going to have to do. They were kind of good anyway, musically probably even better, so no complaints from Clarke. 

Josie wrestles her into a baby pink cowl neck cami, pairing it with a winged-eye sharp enough to cut a man and a silver armlet, before eventually tossing a tight leather skirt her way while Clarke was still deciding between two pairs of jeans. 

“For easy access,” her roommate claimed, with a suggestive wiggle of her perfectly maintained eyebrows. 

Clarke had snorted, even though she was already trying to wring herself into the skirt. She might as well look hot but on the side of slutty tonight. “You don’t seriously think you’re going to hook-up with one of the band members?”

Josie had huffed, wiping away a smudge of red lipstick by the corner of her mouth, turned up into a smug smirk. “Watch me.”

Honestly, Clarke wouldn’t be surprised. The girl has connections. 

Dropship, the bar, is packed by the time they get there, but within their first five minutes there, Josie manages to get them free drinks and elbow their way somewhere to the middle so they have a better view. The support act is still in the middle of their set, but the two shots they took before taking the bus here made them loosen up enough to move along to the beat until the actual show starts. 

The lead singer is tall, dark and handsome personificated, his voice smooth and smokey. Of course Josie jostles her in the ribs the minute the spotlight hits him and calls dibs. There’s the bassist, wearing one single earring in the shape of a human tooth and a hawaiian shirt that’s more unbuttoned than buttoned, who reminds Clarke of a Disney movie villain. Josie calls second dibs on him, in case her and the lead singer don’t run away to the Bahamas to get eloped. The guitarist — smoking hot Latina with long shiny brown hair and a blackwork tattoo of a rocket ship covering her tricep — of course escapes Josie’s attention completely. 

The whole band is unfairly hot in their own way, but who _really_ catches Clarke’s eye is the drummer. All golden brown skin on display thanks to the muscle tee he’s wearing, giving her glimpses of his defined chest and firm abs as he skillfully and rhythmically moves his arms to the beat; strobe lights reflecting off the chain disappearing beneath his shirt; unruly curls only tamed by a red bandana wrapped around his head; biceps covered in a thin layer of sweat and flexing with every movement he makes on the drums; countless tricks with drumsticks definitely proof he’s good with his hands, and his smile, _fuck,_ that smile. Teeth should not be allowed to be that attractive. Point is, he and his ego, that, judging first and foremostly from his overly cocky smirks, can’t be anything but the size of Jupiter, don’t need to know that. 

There’s already heaps of girls falling to his feet with every move he takes, so Clarke pointedly _doesn’t_ look at him all night, except for when she knows for sure he’s not looking at the crowd. Instead she focuses on moving her body to the beat, sipping on her bacardi-coke and badly singing along to the lyrics with Josie. 

During one of the songs she really likes, room covered in hues of blue lights — _lay me in the palm of your hand_ — she catches his eye mid-whistle, fingers still in her mouth, and his smirk widens just a little. _I’ll give you my permission, you’ll always be forgiven._ Then the smoke machine kicks into overdrive, and the song hits it’s climax — _I love the way you’re screaming my name_ — preoccupying and distracting him with a drum solo, and Clarke finds her heart beating just a little faster than before. 

Of course, Josie and her impressive amount of one-sided eye-sex with the lead singer that might have not been so one-sided after all, makes them a shoe-in to get picked from the crowd and invited backstage for the after-party. One of the roadies leads them to some room in the back, where the lights are dimmed and their songs are playing lowly, half drowned out by the music from the bar, vibrating through the walls. 

Clarke immediately makes a dive for the snack table in the back, stacking a small paper plate with cheese puffs and one meager slice of cucumber, while Josie makes conversation with the tour manager. By the way she has her lips pursed and her eyes keep flitting around the room, Clarke can tell she’s bored. The guy, whose name-tag reads Kane, was not her objective of the night after all. 

The band members start to trickle in one by one. They’re not the only fans there, unfortunately, a group of girls immediately vulturing around the drummer as he flashes them a smile. Flimsy excuses about wanting autographs and ‘ _songs that like, totally saved my life_ ’ make Clarke roll her eyes from across the room. She didn’t know songs about being bitter your ex is fucking someone else on the kitchen table had the power to do such a thing.

Naturally, Josie makes a beeline for the lead-singer, but Clarke patiently waits, leaning against the wall by the snack table. The guitarist cooly nods at her in greeting as she passes her by, which Clarke returns in kind, before turning to the bassist as he steals one of her cheese puffs off her plate and mirrors her stance. She reaches out and touches the tooth dangling from his right ear. “Cute touch. Very grunge.”

He purses his lips into something else than a snarl, beady eyes flashing with amusement. “Got it from Etsy.”

She pops one of the cheese snacks into her mouth, telling him through a full mouth, “Supporting small businesses, nice.”

He throws her a grin, rubbing at the corner of his eye, smudging a bit of his eyeliner. “I’m a supporter of the arts.”

She raises her eyebrows, unimpressed. “I thought you prefered to leech off them?”

He nonchalantly slings his arm around her shoulders, chipped black-painted fingernails pressing into the inside of her bicep as he squeezes it. “While it’s true I haven’t written a single lyric on any of our albums — past, present or future — it’s not for a lack of effort. Last time I made a suggestion, Raven kicked me.”

“So the band has a well-understandable sense of self-preservation,” Clarke concludes, sending him a knowing look. She can’t help the smug smirk playing on her lips. “ _That_ , and you can’t spell.”

His wrist dangles from her shoulder lazily, the light catching on his thumb ring. He tilts his head at her in agreement, causing a greasy lock of his late 1990s Leo DiCaprio hairdo to fall in his eyes as he relents, “And I can’t spell.”

Clarke catches the drummer’s eye from across the room while she’s still decisively laughing at and not with the bassist. His dark eyes are narrowed, blazing on hers and it makes her stomach flip over in anticipation. This should be good. 

She listens to the guy on her left go on a random, unprompted tangent about The OC for a minute, and then, like clockwork, the drummer detaches himself from his flock of desperate groupies and comes over. He juts his chin at her, crossing his arms over his chest. “What did you think of the show?”

Clarke stifles a smirk, shrugging lazily. Her eyes linger on his impressive jawline, the hair curling around his ears, before she looks him dead in the eye. “It could’ve done with a few less smoke effects.”

His smirk widens as he holds her gaze, brown eyes darkening on hers, an unspoken challenge between them. Tension in the air grows thick, her pulse fluttering erratically in her neck. The room suddenly feels suffocating. She’s not going to be the first one to look away, even as something warm and exciting slowly sprouts in her core.

The bassist looks between the two of them before he rolls his eyes, kicking off the wall and stealing a final cheese puff. “Jesus fucking Christ. I’m out of here.”

Clearing her throat, she watches him leave, joining the lead singer and Josie, who’s flirtatiously twirling her hair around her finger so much, Clarke’s sure she’ll end up with a bald spot by the end of the night. Her roommate lights up at the addition to their crowd of two, and Clarke almost lets out a laugh at how everything always naturally works out in Josie’s favor with minimal effort on her part. 

The drummer eyes her plate judgmentally, because he’s an ass, brows rising. “A single slice of cucumber, huh?”

Clarke scoffs, using her free hand to tug on the link of her necklace at the side of her neck, and he follows the chain down slowly, to where the end disappears in between her breasts. She watches his tongue dip out to wet his lips, glistening under the light, and bites down on her own to keep from smirking. He’s too easy. “Someone important in my life has been nagging me about how I should eat more vegetables.”

His eyes gleam mischievously as he moves his head to flick a curl from his eyes, still damp from his post-set shower. “Sounds like a very wise someone.”

“Debatable,” Clarke answers, casually, putting the plate down on the table beside her as she wipes her hands on the back of her skirt. She pretends they’re not just clammy from the tension slowly pulling her lower belly tight. 

He snorts, flitting his eyes up to the ceiling briefly. “Cute.”

Her mouth curves into a teasing smirk. “You know, I knew you’d pick me from the crowd.”

Holding her gaze, he leans imperceptibly closer, resting his forearm above her head on the wall, his baritone like gravel to her ears. His eyes are a deep brown, little specks of gold hidden in their depth. “You did, huh?”

Not even taking a beat to recover from the way her breath hitches, she still manages to keep her answer sounding smooth and steady. “Obviously.” She pointedly raises her eyebrows. He smells like soap and aftershave and boy, and she’s _not_ affected. “My friend has been manifesting this since she first laid eyes on your lead singer.”

Skepticism lines his voice, his pupils blown as they briefly dip down to her pink lips. “That must’ve been it.”

“Name one other reason,” Clarke opposes, challengingly, tip-toeing the line. 

He hums, a delicious sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “Your skirt, for example.” His free hand teasingly tugs on the bottom of the fabric, fingers only barely ghosting over her thigh as they fall back down to his side. His gaze slowly comes back up to her face, lingering on every single curve he passes on his way up, and it takes every single last bit of will-power inside of Clarke not to squirm and press her knees together. She’s desperate to release some of the tension building fast at the apex of her thighs. “I like how long it makes your legs look.” 

Clarke pretends to take it into consideration, hissing as if she’s not dripping wet at this point. “Not quite there yet.”

Leaning even closer, her chest brushes his with every heavy breath she takes. She tries to remain impassive, even as his hot breath fans across her face before he presses a wet kiss just below her ear. A shiver runs down her spine, her lips parting slightly. “And how good it would look on the floor of my changing room.”

Her cheeks heat, but instead of giving in, she cocks an eyebrow, unphased. Because of how near he is, she has to tip her head back against the wall to look him the eye. “Has that line ever worked for you before?”

“You tell me,” he grumbles, cockily, and _God_ , he’s so fucking sexy. His fingers trace up her waist, before reaching further up to push her hair back from her face. Her skin feels tight, tingly, too small for her body. “Want to get out of here?”

_Fuck yes_ , Clarke’s entire body chants. _Yes. Yes. Yes_. She manages a shaky smirk, even if it takes every last bit of self-control she has. “You’re lucky I’m easy.”

His big hand engulfes hers, intertwining her fingers as he hurriedly tugs her towards the hallway. Clarke ignores the death stares she gets from some of the girls who’d been previously smooth-talking him, stifling a victorious giggle. 

As soon as he leads her to a door reading ‘ _BELLAMY BLAKE - DRUMMER_ ’, he lugs her inside, crushing her up against it. His mouth takes hers, his lips warm and insistent, fingers digging into her hips as her hands weave into his hair, guiding him. It’s not long before he licks into her, Clarke eagerly welcoming both him and the knee he presses against the door in between her legs. He vaguely tastes of toothpaste and cigarettes. 

She pulls back enough so their lips are close, but not touching, digging her thumb into the space just above his chin to hold him in place. Her nose scrunches up. “You’ve been smoking?”

He actually flinches, his eyelids sliding shut briefly, hands smoothing up and down her sides absentmindedly. “Just half a cig.”

Clarke bites down on his bottom lip as a punishment, reaching between them with one hand to unbuckle his belt at the same time. She expertly manages to get it free from his belt loops, tossing it aside. He chases her mouth, wanting to kiss her, a frustrated sound rumbling in the back of his throat as she turns her face away just before he does. 

He’s distracted, staring at the smile that curves on her lips, only meeting her amusement-covered eyes when the meaning of her words settles in. “Now maybe if you weren’t so susceptible to Raven’s peer-pressuring...”

Bellamy pinches her in the ribs, playfully, muffling the squeak she lets out with his mouth. His hands come up to palm her cheeks, holding her into place until she stops squirming and starts kissing him back. Even then, he lingers, waiting until they’re both out of breath to move his mouth just a little back, pressing it against the corner of her mouth, her cheek, nose, brow bone. Only then, fierce eyes narrowed dangerously, does he darkly tell her, “You _won’t_ stop me from kissing you again.”

She pretends it’s the lack of air from kissing that’s making her feel so lightheaded, out of breath. Clarke swallows hard, nodding slowly after a beat as she holds his burning gaze. She’s so fucking drenched right now. 

He kisses her again, hard and greedy. “Too much?” He wonders, suddenly, as if an after-thought, adorably concerned. Bellamy searches her face, easing the pressure on her pink cheeks to comb her blonde hair behind her ears instead. 

“No,” she breathes, shakily, pulling him back towards her mouth so she can murmur against his lips, hers quirked into a smug smile. She loves him bossy. “I do like it rough.”

He groans into her mouth, dragging his hands down her shoulders and arms, back over her hips until he’s cupping her ass with both. He squeezes, once, before he starts moving them backwards, further into the room. Lips eagerly move down to her neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin, her eyes rolling back as his teeth run over her pulsepoint, until he’s turning them around and she’s suddenly harshly knocked back against the make-up counter. 

Clarke flinches, groaning slightly. “Ouch, Bellamy, not _that_ rough,” she hisses, unwinding her fingers from his hair to rub at her lower back through the material of her cami. 

“Sorry,” he laughs, rough and melodic at the same time, briefly resting his forehead against her collarbone before making the pout on her lips disappear with a soothing kiss. He brushes her hair over her shoulder, thumb rubbing over her collarbone, grinning goofily in a way that makes her heart swell. “I got a little excited.”

“‘S okay,” Clarke mutters quietly, lifting herself onto the counter and wrapping her legs around his hips, urging him closer. Her fingers grab the fabric of his shirt covering his sides, easing back far enough to be able to look up at him, top of her skull resting against the huge spotlight mirror behind her. “I am too.”

He leans back down to kiss her, mouths moving together messily as she lifts her hips enough to pull her skirt up her thighs. Just enough so it’s no longer digging into her skin, allowing him to step even closer. His hard bulge rubs right up against her heat, causing her to moan into his mouth. Practically squirming now, desperate for his hands, of his mouth, _him_ , Bellamy’s grip on her tightens, grinding up against her just slightly. 

His chest’s a warm wall, flush against hers, and his hands work on freeing her shirt from her skirt, so he can haul it over her head. He smooths down her hair after tossing the cami aside, ignoring her as she impatiently tugs on the bottom of his. 

A frustrated noise spills from her lips and he nips at the column of her throat at the same time as he chuckles. She would snap at him, but her brain turns into static as one of his hot palms slides in between her thighs, completely covering her core. His tongue traces the strap of her bra, his free hand moving behind her to work on unclipping it. 

“You first,” he offers as an explanation, low and husky, and she’s too far gone to argue as he pushes her panties aside to slip his fingers through her slick folds. Fuck. 

“Bellamy,” she grumbles, letting off his shirt to slide her hands underneath instead, exploring the broad, muscled expanse of his back. _More,_ she needs more. Her line of thought dies off as one of his fingers slips inside her, and instead she sinks her teeth into his shoulder to keep from getting too obnoxiously loud. She shivers against him as his thumb presses down on her clit, sending sparks up her spine. 

With a final huff of exasperation, the clip of her bra finally clicks open and his mouth is sucking one of her nipples into his mouth before it’s even fully off. She arches into it, fingernails scraping along his ribcage, digging in when he adds another finger. 

“So fucking sexy,” he grumbles against the pale, fleshy part of her breast, his warm lips leaving a trail of fire as he switches attention to her other nipple. His fingers are slowly fucking her open, his pace slow but relentless, and then he looks up at her, his heated eyes dark with lust, a few curls falling into his sight, wet lips slightly parted and she almost comes right there on the spot.

Clarke can’t look away, and the moment lingers until he adjusts his arm, crooking his fingers and allowing his palm to hit her clit with every maddening pump of his fingers, pushing her closer and closer towards the edge until she finally falls apart. 

Her hips twitch toward him, chasing her release, and her breath hitches, warmth spreading from her centre to the tips of her fingers. As soon as she’s come down enough to open her eyes, he’s sending her a dirty smile. “Good, huh?” 

All kinds of indisposed right now, it takes her a moment to muster together a reply. In the meantime, he moves back from her, shedding his shirt. Not for long, because her fingers clasp around the chain hanging from his neck, using it as leverage to close the distance between them again. She kisses him, deep and filthy. Clarke knows what she wants, the fire in her lower belly anything but smothered, just starting to kindle now. “You better fuck me hard right now.”

“Promise,” he rasps, a strangled agreement, already working on pushing his pants down his hips as she starts to unzip her skirt on the side, shoving it down her hips along with her panties before kicking them off completely. 

He grips her waist tightly as her tiny hand wraps around his dick, a satisfied smirk stealing across her lips as he groans and bucks his hips up into her hold. Clarke bends forward, licking a hot stripe along his collarbone, up his neck, tasting his sweat before she playfully nips at his jaw. She runs her thumb over the head, breath hot against his ear. “I thought I made it clear I want you inside of me.”

When she steals a coy glance at his expression, his pupils are blown and endlessly dark, clutching her hips hard enough to leave marks as he slides her ass forward over the counter. One of his hands relents, moving between them to pry her eager fingers off his impressive cock, grunting under his breath. Soon enough, a smug smirk covers his features as he retaliates by running his hardness in between her folds, slicking himself up with her juices. _Obviously_ enjoying the little gasp she lets out as he bumps into her clit, and she’s just started to arch a brow at him when he purposely does it again. She jolts back with surprise, barely managing to hold her own weight with one of her palms.

She glares at him, heated. “Asshole.”

He pecks her nose, fond. “Brat.”

Clarke crashes her lips into his, exchanging desperate, languid kisses until he finally slides home inside of her, a deliciously tight stretch, and then they’re sighing into each other’s mouths. 

His arm bands around her upper back back, hoisting her up just enough to change the angle slightly, and, oh fuck, that’s good. Breathing into her ear, palming her breast roughly, he wonders, “You want me to fuck you?”

“Hard,” she corrects him, digging her heels into the back of his thighs. She doesn’t care how desperate she sounds. In the morning, she wants to be able to still feel him. She wants to remember him every time she changes positions at her desk, not paying attention to her homework at all, just thinking of this exact moment. “Fuck me hard.”

He tugs on her nipple, harshly, pulling out a bit before he slams back in. She straightens her back, breasts crushed high on his chest as her arms fold around his back, holding him close. Clarke latches onto him tightly, sweat startling to trickle down her spine as she starts to try and meet his thrusts, grinding against him. Pleasure flows through her, threatening to sweep her away. 

Bellamy brushes hot kisses against her throat, her collarbone, everywhere he can reach, fingers digging into her ass as his other hand dips between them, rubbing rough, tight circles. Her cheeks feel hot, tension inside of her building and building. 

This time, he presses down hard at the same time as he pounds into her, his pubic bone flush against hers, and the dam breaks, carrying her away. Her head hits the glass mirror behind her, but she hardly registers it, her pulse thundering in her ears as her orgasm crashes over her like a tidal wave, spreading pure bliss across her body. 

She’s drifting along, cunt still fluttering around him when he grunts into her shoulder, spilling inside of her. His hand trails over the back of her head, stroking her hair as he presses a sloppy kiss to her temple. “Happy six month anniversary,” he murmurs, still breathing hard. 

She eases back, meeting his mouth with a soft, slow kiss. Clarke smiles lazily, cupping his jaw briefly. “I love you.”

He returns a sweet grin, peeling his sweaty skin off hers as his thumbs make little windsweeper motions over the junction of her hips and thighs. “I love you too.”

Bellamy presses his cheek to the curve of her breast, holding her close in a way that makes her stomach flip and her chest form a tight vice around her heart. She’s missed him, a lot. Eventually, he pulls away and out of her, knowing the longer they wait the worse it is. 

“I gotta pee.” Clarke sighs, body still languid from her two breathtaking orgasms. She taps him on the shoulder, a silent plea for him to move aside so she can slide off the counter and use his bathroom. “Clean up the mess you made.”

“Shame,” he notes, absently catching her hand in his as it drops down from his shoulder while his brown eyes trail down to where she’s sure his spent is dripping from her cunt. The corners of his mouth turn up in a small smirk. 

She shoves at his shoulder, roughly tossing his hand aside after she smacks a kiss to the back of it. “You’re an actual troglodyte.”

“Stop using your big Ivy League words on me,” he teases. Without asking, he helps her down off the counter, steadying her with two hands on her waist in what would have otherwise been a not so graceful move, considering her legs are still trembling. “You know I never finished college.”

“Thank God I like you for your other parts,” Clarke fires back pointedly, leaning up on her tiptoes for a kiss, which he gladly gives to her. 

Once she comes back from his bathroom, she finds the muscle tee from his set on the floor, tugging it over her head as she grabs one of the water bottles off the coffee table, falling onto the couch perched in the middle of the room. “You know, Josie might have a threesome with Gabe and Murphy.”

“As long as he keeps his paws off you,” Bellamy tells her gruffly, in the middle of shrugging his jeans back over his underwear before he drops down beside her. 

“Awwh, were you jealous?” She taunts him, only half-serious, taking a sip of her water before offering him the bottle. Clarke pulls up her knees, hugging them to her chest with her free arm. 

He takes the bottle from her, throwing back a swig before he scoffs, a dangerously dark glint in his eye. “I wasn’t jealous of _Murphy_ of all people.”

He’s right. Murphy is the last person he should be worried about — exhibit A the human tooth earring, exhibit B literally everything else about the guy — but it still sends a thrill through her body knowing he cares. She likes it when he gets possessive, especially because she’s usually sharing him with half the world. 

She purses her mouth, following his tongue as it darts out to catch a bead of water on his bottom lip. It’s distracting, but not distracting enough to derail her from embarrassing him. “You shouldn’t be, considering he knows all your sappy love songs are about me.”

“Sappy, huh?” He echoes, poking her in the ribs playfully until she squeaks with laughter. He pulls her into his side, kissing the top of her head as he discards the bottle beside him on the couch. _So you can drag me through hell, if it meant I could hold your hand. I will follow you._ Nevermind all the angel and princess allegories, lyrics about dream girls with sunshine in their hair and the ocean in their eyes. The song for her dad, and the one about learning to forgive yourself, and that very first one he ever wrote her, after they hooked-up and she held him off, scared of his ability to love so hugely and unapologetically without asking for anything in return. _Golden hair and her eyes are that kind, make you feel like heaven, spent the night ‘tween her thighs. Caught a vibe then I got too zealous. Now she’s free like a bird and I’m caught in a world of feelings._ Yeah, she’s so fucking in love with him it hurts. “Gabriel knew exactly who she was. He’s been stalking her through your Instagram for months.”

Clarke shifts her head from where it’s resting on his shoulder, so she can give him a look. Her brows draw together suspiciously. “From his Finsta, hopefully.”

“Are you afraid people are going to find out about our secret love affair?” He muses, eyes gleaming. His hand dips under her arm to slide into the side opening of his shirt, affectionately skimming his fingers right along the underside of her breast before warmly settling over her ribs. “Are you embarrassed of me, Clarke, is that it?”

She lifts herself up into her knees, swinging one over his lap so she’s straddling him. Her hands rub up his bare chest, before coming to rest over his shoulders. “I just don’t want to get egged in the courtyard by your jealous fangirls.” She pouts, feigning bashfulness with her big doe eyes. “Or ruin your womanizer reputation.” 

Bellamy twists a strand of stray blonde hair around his finger, widening his eyes as if agreeing before rolling them. “Oh yeah, whatever the hell will I do if the general public forms a subjective opinion of me.”

Obviously, he doesn’t care. He’s never cared, immune to whatever people he doesn’t personally know think of him. 

“Just two more semesters,” she reminds him, full of wistful yearning. Clarke has never wanted special treatment, let alone be looked at as the girl dating Bellamy Blake. It’s terrible enough being Abby Griffin’s daughter. She enjoys her limited anonymity at school, no drama. One she’s out of there, she couldn’t care less. She’ll terrorize him at every tour date and star in his music videos free of charge, hold his hand on the red carpet and kiss him at award shows on national television when they win, tattoo his initials behind her ear and name their babies after hurricanes and/or condiments — all that sweet rock and roll stuff. She tilts her head, lashes fluttering. “Besides, how many more albums before your fanbase starts longing for a bit more depth from their favorite Himbo drummer?”

“True, I’m kinda over being the band’s residential manwhore.” His hands rub the outside of her thighs, smirk growing slowly. “I just want to be your personal whore.”

Sitting back a little, so more weight is on her ass instead of her knees, Clarke deadpans, “And they say romance is dead.”

He fingers the shiny chain of her necklace, lost in thought, before pulling it free from underneath her shirt, taking her ring into his palm. He runs his thumb over the silver metal, warm from her body-heat, a certain kind of reverence in his voice that never fails to make want to die. “Only the best for my wife.”

She grasps onto his matching ring, dangling against his sternum, closing her fist around it as she leans forward to meet his mouth. “I never get tired of you saying that.”

They got married exactly six months ago, during the summer break in between her junior and senior year just because it felt natural. Clarke borrowed a dress from his sister, and Bellamy didn’t even bother with a tie. It was a quick little ceremony at city hall with just a handful of friends and family. Their first dance was to his band badly covering a Taylor Swift ballad — Murphy’s off-key crooning “ _Can I go where you go?_ ” for always haunting her nightmares — and they spent three weeks on a Fiji beach afterwards. They ended up buying a house on the edge of town, about fifty minutes away from campus. Clarke only stays there on the weekends when Bellamy’s not touring, figured it was just as convenient to share a dorm with Josie while she was still in school, in order to skip morning traffic and not have to fight for a spot at the library all the time. Besides, he liked the thought of her not being on her own while he was away. 

Bellamy kisses her forehead, then her temple, slowly making his way down her face until he reaches her neck. “And I never get tired of hearing you come.”

She laughs, half-heartedly swatting at his chest. “You’re a pig.”

“I missed you,” he murmurs against her throat, inhaling her scent before he lifts her head to look at her, few stray curls falling into his eyes. 

Her heart swells. She leans her forehead against his, gripping the back of his neck as she nuzzles his nose with hers. “More than anything.”

**Author's Note:**

> before i offend anyone, let me just gently state that s7 clarke can go fuck herself. s7 clarke is a cunt and nobody likes her. s7 clarke can go die for all i care. stan meha instead. thank you for your attention. 
> 
> @captaindaddykru on tumblr/twitter.


End file.
